


Emily Victoria

by fayegrove



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Babies, Childbirth, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayegrove/pseuds/fayegrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from Tumblr: "Fluff request. Reader has just given birth to Tom's child, but Tom was late because of filming, but has now arrived at the hospital."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emily Victoria

**Author's Note:**

> _"Tom buries his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees to try and control his breathing. There was no use in getting worked up over nothing and yet, once the seed of doubt had taken root, it blossomed like a weed that choked the air right out of his lungs. Surely,_ surely _if something had gone wrong one of the people there with you would have sent a message his way."_
> 
> Also on [Tumblr](http://tomsdarling.tumblr.com/post/33894902610/emily-victoria).

Beads of sweat slide down Tom’s face as he taps his knees anxiously with his fingers. One second he is staring in a panic out of the window for any signs that the hospital was nearing, and the next his eyes are fixed on the taxi’s speedometer. The dial read 105 kilometers per hour which he knew was the maximum they could go, but he was still tempted to beg the driver to floor it. Every few seconds he would pull out his phone and check for an alert of some kind; none had come. Strange, seeing as how someone or another was usually texting him.

Of course she won’t be sending you texts, idiot, he chastises himself. Still, he’d hoped that someone might have seen fit to send him some sort of an update. After all your whole family and closest friends were supposed to be gathered there at the hospital with you. Why hadn’t one of them bothered to send him a message? Had something had gone wrong?

Tom buries his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees to try and control his breathing. There was no use in getting worked up over nothing and yet, once the seed of doubt had taken root, it blossomed like a weed that choked the air right out of his lungs. Surely, surely if something had gone wrong one of the people there with you would have sent a message his way. If nothing else the doctors would have notified him. Wouldn’t they?

When the taxi slows down and rolls to an abrupt stop, Tom looks up. Rush hour in the heart of London had brought traffic outside to a stand-still. Groaning, he leans into the window as far as he can to gather his bearings. The hospital was only a five minute drive away from where they had come to a stop, he realizes in a burst of clarity. Immediately he pulls out his credit card and leans forward on the bench seat. “I’ll get out here, thank you.”

The taxi driver grunts and Tom sees his total appear on the flat screen mounted into the seat in front of him. He swipes his card—tipping generously as he always did—then after signing his name he leaps out of the car. He hurtles into a full-on sprint, apologizing to everyone he bumps into or knocks over as he runs.

“I’m sorry! Excuse me, it’s an emergency!” he calls every time this happens and people grumble in annoyance. He does not slow his speed until he reaches the traffic intersections, and the whole time while waiting for the white walking figure to appear he fidgets restlessly. The moment the light to cross appears he dashes across the painted lines as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Not having warmed up before the run, his muscles are soon screaming in protest but he presses on, ignoring the ominous way his muscles seem to be splinting away from the bone. Incoherent thoughts of you lying in a bed, bleeding out, spur him on even as he feels bitter tears threatening to fall. Try as he might he could not rationalize anything but that something horrible had happened and no one knew how to say over the phone, deciding it best to wait and tell him in person. By the time he reaches the emergency entrance to the hospital ten minutes later, he is drenched in sweat and limping from calf muscles that had seized up.

He rushes inside and immediately aims for the nurse’s station. “Please, my wife—“ he gasps for air, one hand pressing to his chest, “surname Hiddleston, she’s here—“

“Tom!” He turns, recognizing the voice of his mother-in-law. “Tom, there you are! We’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”

“What? I’ve had my phone on me, I’ve gotten no calls,” Tom pants, pulling out his phone to check. Then he notices the little plane where his reception bars should have been. He stares at the device, aghast, as he realizes that in his panic he had forgotten to disable the airplane mode once his flight had gone airborne. He lifts his face up to the gathered crowd with rising alarm as he takes in their stoic expressions. “What’s happened?”

His father-in-law opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by the voice of the doctor who had just approached, his scrubs smeared with what, to Tom’s growing alarm, appeared to be bright red blood. “Mr. Hiddleston?”

“Yes, that’s me,” he offers quickly, rushing towards him. “Where’s my wife? Is she okay?”

“She’s on the third floor. Mr. Hiddleston, I need to tell you about a complication that arose—“ but Tom heard nothing further. He pushes past the doctor and bolts into the closing doors of the elevator even as the doctor begs for him to come back so that he can explain. Once inside his eyes scan the map mounted on the inside of the elevator, locates the number three and presses the button repeatedly.

There was a stop to every floor as nurses and visitors filed in and out, and by the time the doors had finally opened to level three Tom could feel bile rising into the back of his throat. He stopped at every door as he hurried down the hallway, praying that each one would contain you waiting to yell at him for not having been present, but alive and healthy. A panic attack was in the midst of developing before a nurse exited a nearby room and, seeing his anxious state, approaches him.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“My wife, Hiddleston, she—“

“Oh yes, I’m your wife’s nurse.” She smiles gently at Tom who, in his state of agitation, could not decipher whether the expression was forced or sincere. “She’s right down the hall, fourth door on the right.”

Tom hastily thanks the nurse and bolts down the aisle, pausing only long enough outside of the door to peer into the rectangular window. Inside he can see you lying under the sheets, hooked up to monitors with your eyes closed. Heart clenching painfully in his chest, Tom opens the door and steps inside; he had never been more frightened in his life as he approaches the hospital bed slowly, watching your immobile form.

When your eyes flutter open and met his dazedly, he collapses over the side of your bed, wrapping his arms around your front so that his hands could tuck underneath your back on the mattress. “Tom?” you ask in confusion, and the sound of your voice unleashes an avalanche of tears from him. Your hands lift slightly from the bed to rest against his arms for a few seconds before they fall onto the sheets once more. “What’s wrong?”

A hoarse laugh escapes Tom’s throat and he finally lifts his head from your shoulder, so overjoyed to see that you are okay that he couldn’t remember ever having smiled so broadly or loving you so deeply. “You've just given birth and you’re asking me what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You laugh at his jest and then wince. Tom’s smile falls slightly. “What happened? The doctor said something about a complication.”

“It’s nothing, just a bit of tearing.”

“…tearing?” an icy fist clenches Tom’s insides.

“The doctor called it a second degree perineal tear. He stitched me up and I’ll have to be under bed rest for a few weeks, that’s all,” you add as Tom falls heavily into the chair beside you, his face drawn in shock. “It’s really not that bad,” you finish pleadingly.

“I’m so sorry that I wasn’t here to—“ his words are interrupted by the door opening. In comes the nurse who had given him directions, pushing a cart with clear, plastic walls encasing a small bundle in pink blankets. Adrenaline courses through his veins and he glances back towards you, and you answer his unspoken inquiry with a nod.

“Our daughter, Tom.”

For the eight months you had known that your child was coming, both of you had agreed that you did not want to know the gender. Countless hours had been spent cuddling on the sofa, Tom’s hands pressed against your belly as he whispered to the infant nestled snugly inside, praying that when the babe did finally enter the world he or she would recognize his voice and find as much comfort in the sound as they would yours, the mother whose voice they had grown accustomed to. Together you had decorated the nursery in gender neutral shades of green, brown and yellow with little safari animals painted across the room, and it was with his own two hands that he had insisted on assembling the rocking chair that he'd bought as a welcome home gift for the two of you. Echoing in Tom’s thoughts was the sound of your amused laughter as he had spread all of the components on the carpet, struggling to decipher the instructions with a furrowed brow. Every night Tom had fallen asleep with his arms around you, his hands placed lovingly, protectively, against your growing belly.

Tom returns to the present with a jolt, his reminiscing having lasted for the briefest of moments before the nurse had pushed the cart over to the side of the bed. “Would you like to hold your daughter?” she asks Tom gently. He nods jerkily, his thoughts a blur as she lifts the bundle of blankets out of the cart and places the babe delicately in his outstretched arms.

The love that blooms in Tom’s heart at the sight of the tiny, pink face licking her lips and blinking bemusedly up at him is instantaneous, forging a path deep into his being and fusing to his very core. Tears well in his eyes as a sound, half-laugh and half-sob, escapes his throat. Exhausted from the eleven hour labor, you lay still and watch silently as your husband bonds with the child you had fought so agonizingly to bring into this world. Your eyes follow the paths his fingers trace across your daughter’s lips and feel a lump form in your throat when he places his index finger in her tiny hand, onto which she reflexively grasps. Heart squeezing in your chest, you feel tears burning behind your eyes when he adjusts the bundle gently in his arms and kisses your daughter on her forehead, letting his lips rest there for a long moment.

“I’m so sorry I was late,” Tom whispers suddenly, tearing his eyes away from the newborn to gaze into your eyes. “By the time my assistant got the message to me it had been an hour, then they had to remove the costume and hair extensions and then the flight was eight hours and I couldn’t—“

“It’s okay,” you shush your husband gently, grinning at him through half-closed eyes. “This is what happens when you’re married to the god of mischief,” you add jokingly. There is a moment of strained silence where Tom looks torn between his brooding guilt and amusement at your ridiculous jest, but then just as suddenly you are both laughing. Tom gets to his feet and holds out the baby for you to take, and you ignore the weakness in your arms to pull her carefully into your embrace. Once she is secure Tom pulls off his shoes and, realizing his intent, you attempt to scoot forward on the bed—and promptly grimace at the burning throbs that erupt between your legs.

“Don’t move, darling,” he murmurs worriedly as he removes the pillows from behind you and then climbs into the bed in their stead. His hands lightly grip onto your shoulders and pull you back towards his chest so that you can use him as a pillow, and he wraps his arms around you and kisses your neck. “I wish I could have been here for you.” His voice, usually so full of joy now quivers with sadness, and you tilt your head back so that you can see his eyes.

“You came, and we are all here now, together. That’s what matters.” A tear falls from his eye and lands on your cheek, and then you both look down at the baby girl in your arms. “She looks like you,” you add lovingly, cuddling her closer to your chest.

“Poor thing,” Tom jokes darkly and you elbow him in the chest, inciting a mutinous chuckle. “I don’t know, I think she looks more like you. She has your lips.”

“Maybe, but everything else is all you. Including your hair,” you say happily, removing the pink, knitted cap so that he could see the full mop of blonde curls there. Tom laughs and places his hand on your daughter’s hair; his hand is so large that he covers her head as thoroughly as the knitted cap had. Suddenly the baby’s face screws up and she begins to cry. Tom stiffens and hastily removes his hand, leaning forward so that he can see more clearly over your shoulder.

“Did I hurt her?”

“No,” your voice is soothing as you readjust the babe in your arms before unfastening the front of your hospital gown, “she’s hungry.” Tom watches, awed, as you remove a breast and do as the nurse had instructed you to, rubbing your nipple across your daughter’s lips until she instinctively latches on and begins to suckle. A few more tears land on your bare shoulder and slide down your chest, and you turn to look up at Tom. He’s crying and staring at you with such tenderness that you feel the tears finally spill over from your own eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, a hand reaching up and resting lightly on your cheek. He tilts your face towards him so that he can press his lips to yours, and then you both are gazing down at your daughter while she nurses, her tiny fists gripping onto your breast with curious fingers. “What should we name her?”

“Well, you had wanted Victoria if she was a girl,” you concede, shifting the baby slightly so that her belly was pressed fully against yours.

“And you wanted Emily. How about Emily Victoria? You did do most of the work, after all.”

“Excuse me!” you whisper in mock indignation. “Most of the work? And what exactly did you do, Tom?”

“Well, planting her inside of you was pretty exhausting…”

You shriek with laughter even as you feel a hint of pink brighten your cheeks, and you turn back to gaze at your daughter. “You’re lucky I can’t move or else I’d punch you for that.”

Tom nuzzles the crease of flesh where your neck meets your shoulder and kisses your skin lovingly, then reaches out to stroke your daughter’s cheek at your breast. “Emily Victoria.”

You lean back into Tom, allowing him to support your weight as you fight off the sleep that would soon creep up on you. Softly he begins to sing in your ear, and in that moment there is nothing in the world that could disrupt your contentment. All of the fear and uncertainty, all of the pain and tears were worth it in the end, you think as he sings quietly, his voice wavering with emotion as he watches you nurse the embodiment of your love.


End file.
